As we stood outside the door of the shed, everyone could smell it. They were holding their hands over their nose and mouth. I once again offered the balm. Everyone took it this time. Peppermint was a wonderful thing. It tingled, which was nifty, and it killed a lot of noxious odors, but left the olfactory system fast once it was washed away.
Nails lay on the ground as I opened the door. I wanted to put some of the balm on his poor nose. I couldn’t imagine how bad it smelled to him. However, I knew better. I opened the door instead.
Flies, their meal suddenly interrupted, took flight. They swarmed the stale air, creating a buzzing black cloud. A few butterflies were mixed in, their brightly colored wings contrasting with the black swarm as they fluttered. They only stayed in the air a second or two, before returning to the three bodies. Butterflies were less disturbed by living people than flies.
“Don’t,” I put my arm up to stop Young from entering the shed. I pointed at the floor.
It was coated in a semi-tacky goo of indescribable color. It looked black, brown, red, or orange, depending on how the light hit it and how you held your head. The shed was well built. The goo showed no footprints from scavenging animals.
Most humans forgot that they were made up primarily of water. Decomposition released the water and other fluids. As the solid parts broke down, they mixed with the water and other fluids, creating these semi-tacky puddles of human goo. However, it was a slow process and most bodies were not as well protected as these, making the goo puddles rare.
Young radioed the find in. My phone instantly rang. Xavier was on the other end.
“Well protected, insect damage severe, put in here at different times,” I replied curtly. “Three bodies, all look to be young, or they were midgets.”
“They prefer the term ‘little people’,” Xavier corrected.
“Gender unavailable at this time,” I snipped. “It’s bad, bring floor scrapers.”
“Hm, human goo.”
“Lots of it.” I hung up and closed the door again. No need to let the insects out. There was also no need to go traipsing in. We’d wreck the disposal site and they were all very dead.
I lit a cigarette and walked towards a tree. Nails surprisingly followed me. Young followed Nails.
“He likes you,” Young said.
“What’s with the name?” I asked.
“His toenails grow at an alarming rate. I’ve seen a lot of dead bodies, but nothing like that.”
“Human decomp without scavengers in the heat. The fluids drain creating a breeding ground for bacteria. The bacteria break down the matter. It creates goo. Most bodies are found before this stage or after. Those that aren’t, well, they usually are not stored in such perfect conditions as to keep the goo from draining. It’s rare to find a floor or something covered in it, but it happens.”
“You’re one of those very smart types that knows a little bit about a lot of different stuff, aren’t you?”
“No, I know a lot of stuff about a lot of stuff and I am constantly expanding my knowledge.”
“I’m not sure whether to congratulate you or give you my condolences,” Young said. “I had an uncle like you. Brilliant man, couldn’t forget anything he learned or saw. He was a cop too. A homicide detective to be exact. He was working a case in the fifties, a serial killer on I-5. Found a dozen little girls’ bodies. They caught the guy, but he was deemed not fit to stand trial. While being held at an asylum, he escaped and managed to kill two more little girls. My uncle killed him and then killed himself.”
I had nothing to say to that or to Ranger Young. Nails was fine, panting near my feet, not talking to me, but Young seemed to want to fill the void. There were a few stories that came to mind. Recently, I had put a gun to my head, the result of a tumor and a migraine. It had even created feelings and I hadn’t liked it. However, that was not the type of story one told others. I could share my tragic family history; grandfather a serial killer, father a cop gunned down in the line of duty, brother a mass murderer getting revenge not just for our family, but for dozens of unknown families while destroying just as many lives. Again, that was not the type of story one told others. Instead, I offered him a cigarette from my pack. He politely declined. We stood in silence as I smoked.
“You’re not much of a talker,” he finally said.
“If you would like a lecture on unsolved crimes or the fall of the Soviet Union or the use of torture in medieval times, I’m your girl. However, I do not chit chat about the weather or my private life.”
“A genius who doesn’t talk, that’s new,” Ranger Young said. “Are you married?”
I frowned. I was fairly certain he wasn’t deaf and that I had just said I did not chit chat about my private life. Now, he was wanting to talk about marriage.
“I am a female sociopath who hunts serial killers for a living with an IQ over 160. I’m not exactly the type of girl you bring home to your mother or take on a double date with your married friends. It would be far more likely that my number would be kept in your cell phone because you belonged to a bar trivia team and needed a ringer one or two nights because your team was in second place.”
“That’s depressing,” Young responded.
“Depression requires a deep well of emotions to pull from. I am incapable of having many deep emotions and none of them are sad.” I stubbed out my cigarette.
“A sociopath hunting sociopaths. That’s a novel idea.”
“Not really. History would provide a very strong basis for the theory that most law enforcement before the 1900s was indeed made up of sociopaths. It would also support the idea that executioners and the ilk were most likely psychopaths. Two sides of the same coin, both working towards the enforcement of some sort of archaic law and order. Of course, it would also support that a large number of ‘madness’ ascribed to many criminals was in fact the exact same mental condition. The same applies to modern day, with some exceptions. Most psychopaths can fake their way through a personality exam, fewer sociopaths make it, but that is just a matter of controlling emotions. Psychopaths have fewer emotions, so it is easier to fake being well adjusted.”
“Using that logic, sociopaths would be the more unstable of the two.”
“Quite the opposite. While we lack empathy, sympathy, and compassion, we are capable of feeling something. Psychopaths generally have no emotions. Our killer is most likely of the psychopathic variety. The death of the victims serves some inner need to control or destroy. Lucas is more up on the babble than I am, but the difference can be illustrated as such: if I were to kill, there would be a reason, aside from just a desire to do so. A psychopath doesn’t need any reason at all.” I looked at the shed door, which remained closed due to the stench. “Of course, a psychopath blends in better than a sociopath in every day society. Which makes our killer more mundane appearing than is useful. Rounding up all the oddballs in town won’t help us catch the killer. We’d be better off to bring in all the ‘normal’ people for questioning.”
A car pulled up. This was unusual, as the government seemed to have an endless supply of black SUVs with tinted windows at our disposal. The irony of driving around in the sport utility version of a hearse was not lost on me. It wasn’t just that they were all SUVs, usually Suburbans, but that they were always black. Not once had we hopped into a red or white one.
Xavier climbed from the driver’s side of the car. I wondered how many fences and signs were showing damage within the town of San Marcos.
He nodded to me and walked over to the shed. He didn’t bother with balm of any sort. As our coroner, he was immune to the smells associated with the dead. However, even he grimaced as he opened the door. Standing under the tree hadn’t moved me far enough away to keep me from being able to smell it, but with the door open, it was a chore not to make a face.
A couple of other people now stepped out of the car. They looked pale and I was betting it wasn’t the heat or the smell. Facing serial killers was less harrowing than riding with Xavier. Hell, being chased by crocodiles was less harrowing than riding with Xavier. They each held a bag and began the process of unpacking them.
As we watched, they transformed from human beings to white-suited androgynous non-beings. They had almost no forms, because the suits were very loose except around the hands, ankles, and face. To this, they added gloves, booties, respirators, and goggles. Xavier just slipped on booties, obviously less concerned with getting that smell or any diseases on him.
Sometimes, I couldn’t decide whether he was being cavalier or everyone else was just overly cautious. I was leaning towards the first one as he entered the shed. The two suited beings joined him and they began poking and prodding at the bodies.
The flies moved as a giant unit. They buzzed loudly, their wings beating angrily in the warm air. The butterflies lazily drifted through the door. One attempted to alight on the arm of one of the officers that had come with me. The officer beat at it crazily. I tried not to smile at his concern. Most people never understood that while butterflies and moths liked the sweet nectar of flowers, they also liked the salty goo of decomposition. Every butterfly or moth ever to touch a living person had also made a meal of something dead. The officer would probably never look at a butterfly the same way.
One landed on my arm, a large Monarch with exceptionally bright markings. Unlike the officer, I didn’t bat at the insect or attempt to keep it from landing on me. Its tiny tongue poked at my skin, licking off the salt that collected on the flesh. It tickled.
“Wow, that doesn’t bother you?” Young asked.
“No, all butterflies and moths feed on decomposing flesh. It is just rare to see.” I looked at him. “Besides, I really like butterflies and moths. They are amazing creatures.”
“I’m kind of horrified by that at the moment,” Young answered.
“Let’s take them back, scrape up all this as well,” Xavier pointed to the shed floor.
“Done?” I asked.
“Well, I could request the collection of all the insects, but that would be a fool’s errand.” He grabbed the Monarch on my arm. Gently, he uncurled his fingers from around it. The monarch was uninjured. “However, it’s unlikely they were poisoned, so...” He lightly breathed on the butterfly. It took flight, flittering away from us.
“To the morgue then,” I suggested.
“My second favorite sentence in the world,” Xavier answered.